


Love the Sinner

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Western, Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, Guilt, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Porn with Feelings, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: George Washington is a priest in an old-west mining town. Alexander Hamilton is a young congregant who frequents his church. When certain lines have already been crossed, the question remains: what happens now?





	Love the Sinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Face_of_Poe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/gifts).



Alexander Hamilton believes in God, more or less. He believes with the sort of detached pragmatism that he applies to so many other aspects of his life. A source of comfort in the worst of times, though nothing that might staunch his ambitions. Nothing that can interfere with his plans, to make something spectacular out of a life that should have ended with the same ugly fever that took his mother.

But it's no pretense of faith that keeps bringing him back to the church at the edge of town.

Through the dust and muck of main street, through thick crowds of people come to dig gold from otherwise barren hills, through hot sun and inclement weather alike. After nearly every shift that he works at the general store—grateful to Mister Stevens for a living that doesn't send him down one of those endless mine shafts—Hamilton walks all the way across town to the church.

The building is a dramatic contrast to everything around it. An elegant structure of smooth wood and high, beam-braced ceilings. It’s also cleaner than anything else in this godforsaken piece of nowhere.

And there, as Alexander crosses the threshold and lets the heavy oak door thud closed behind him, he finds the reason he keeps coming back. Father Washington is just as elegant and out-of-place in this town as the church he maintains. Not a powerful orator, but a man of consequence just the same. The town folk listen and heed his quiet voice, the surprisingly few words that come out of his mouth.

Washington turns at the sound of the door, dropping the final edge of the fabric he’s busy unfolding over the altar. When his gaze finds Alexander, an immediate smile spreads bright as the sun across his face.

A moment later and the expression fades, replaced by a more somber look and a furrowed brow. Anxiety pulses in Alexander's chest, and his heart beats faster. He can't exactly blame Washington for looking at him like that, considering the intimacies that passed between them last time Hamilton was here.

Considering the five days in which he's been avoiding the place since.

"Alexander." Washington descends the shallow stairs to the main floor of the church. There is caution in every step as he moves along the center aisle between pews. "I wasn't sure you would be back."

Hamilton swallows past the tightness in his throat. "Can we talk, Father?"

Washington stops directly in front of him, the narrow distance of propriety not enough to negate their vast difference in height. Alexander has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact, and just like always he is flattened by a simple fact: Father Washington is beautiful.

Dark eyes glitter with feeling he so rarely expresses. His broad shoulders are straight and strong beneath black fabric, and the white of his priest's collar sits perfectly centered against the smooth line of his throat. He is powerful, and kind, and more than twice Alexander's age, and his proximity makes Alexander's face heat.

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Washington answers, "Of course we can talk. The library—"

"Not the library," Hamilton interrupts too quickly. They could easily be interrupted in the church's little library. "Somewhere more private."

Washington's eyes widen, and it's like Alexander can see the thoughts churning in his head. The next logical choice—Washington's private office _beside_ the library—is not a viable suggestion after the things that transpired between them the last time Alexander joined him there.

He shouldn't push. Rationally he knows this; that Washington is a good man who wants to do the right thing. That he should allow whatever evasions the guilt-stricken priest needs to keep Alexander at a distance. That they _should not_ be alone together.

But Alexander wouldn't be here today if he gave a damn about _should_.

"We could go upstairs," he suggests, and Washington's eyes go even wider. Before the inevitable protest can follow, Alexander softens his voice to painful honesty and says, " _Please_."

Another eternity passes, silent and tense, and he wonders if Washington will send him away.

Then Washington's eyes close and he draws a shaky breath. Opens his eyes again, and there is a contradictory mix of resignation and desire.

"Fine." Just one word, but there is something shattered and desperate in it. Heat that could as easily be hellfire as passion. Hamilton has never felt more selfish than he does in this fractured moment, as Washington leads the way toward the vestibule and the discreet stairs tucked away in a shadowed corner.

Hamilton follows. He has only ever been upstairs in Washington's apartments once, and he is still mortified at the collapse that necessitated it. Exhaustion and illness, a feverish swimming of reality, and then waking in Father Washington's bed with the town's quack of a physician tending him.

That was only a year ago. He hasn't been upstairs since—what excuse could he possibly conjure—but he remembers the few rooms, small kitchen, sparse furnishings. The sturdy lock on the apartment door.

Alexander turns the lock now, securing them in solitude where they can't be interrupted.

He wonders if he will have to argue. Maybe Washington is truly repentant and will not touch him. Maybe Alexander will have to use all his powers of persuasion to bring him around. Convince him they _can_ , and never mind the consequences.

But before he can begin to gather his words—words he spent the whole of last night preparing—Washington is on him. Shoving him hard against the door and framing his face between enormous hands.

Kissing him, as though harboring no regrets at all.

Of course Alexander kisses back. And a moment later, when Washington tugs him toward the tiny bedroom and begins stripping away his dusty clothes, Alexander allows that too. He reaches forward to help, equally impatient to drag Washington bare and touch hot skin.

By the time Alexander finds himself naked in Washington's bed, he is feverish, restless as muscular weight pins him down to the impossibly soft mattress. He is pleading in earnest now, a ceaseless litany begging Washington to touch him.

"Hush, little one." Washington brushes the words against his temple, soft and soothing. "I've got you."

_Little one_. The diminutive should gall him. He isn't a child. He's nineteen. A grown man clawing a better future for himself out of smarts and stubbornness. He does not want to be coddled or protected.

But somehow, in Washington's gravel-rough voice, the words are welcome. They send a shiver along his spine, a warm pulse that feels alarmingly like belonging.

When Washington's oil-slick cock fills him, Alexander barely stifles a cry. It's too much. God, it's more than the fingers Washington slipped inside him five days ago. This intrusion is so much bigger, thick and hot, equal parts pain and pleasure. Sensations so intense that Alexander is suddenly certain he will split apart.

Before he can decide whether or not to panic, he feels Washington still inside him. The pain settles, a more manageable discomfort that shivers along his senses and leaves room for other details to reach him. His heart races at the heat of Washington's body blanketing him, the softness of lips pressing eager kisses along his throat, the steady strength in hands holding him still.

"Do you need me to stop?" Washington asks, and the question hits Alexander like a rail switch being thrown, steering his brain away from any hint of doubt.

"No," he gasps, bending his knees to either side of Washington's hips—and then, when that doesn't feel emphatic enough, twining his legs up around Washington's waist. Locking his ankles at the small of that broad back. The movement jostles the hard cock inside him, and Washington groans against his shoulder.

" _Alexander_." The name breathes out soft as a prayer, low and helpless.

Pleasure crests inside him as his body adjusts to the straining ache—as Washington _moves_ —as their bodies find a rhythm together, imperfect and yet better than Alexander's filthiest fantasies.

It's Washington who comes first, after an eon of groaning quiet. His body goes rigid, his weight stilling on top of Alexander as powerful arms wrap tight and hold on. Impressive, how Washington makes no sound at all as he spends, though his teeth dig into Hamilton's shoulder as though he can barely contain himself. It's a sting Alexander hardly notices through the flood of his own rising orgasm.

Unlike Washington, Hamilton is _not_ quiet, as he spills between their bodies and breathes a high, muffled cry. His own arms are wrapped tight around Washington's shoulders, his face buried beneath Washington's jaw. He is shaking so hard it's a wonder he doesn't come apart at the seams.

He doesn't know what to expect in the moments that follow. This is a different sort of silence, strained and unsteady, and for once Alexander doesn’t know what to say.

"This cannot happen again." Washington murmurs at last, but he holds Alexander tighter as he says it. Neither one of them makes any effort to remove themselves from the bed.

"But it's going to," Hamilton says softly, not an argument but an observation. "Isn't it?"

Washington doesn't answer, but his silence is all the confirmation Alexander needs.


End file.
